Interlude
by Chornyi
Summary: Another short fic.. This one was kind of intense to write and I really enjoyed it. Hope you do, too. Rated R just a little :)


INTERLUDE  
  
By Chornyi   
  
Not mine, not even Ian unfortunately. You know who they belong to.   
  
Another short fic. Hope it is enjoyed. HUGE thanks to my wonderful beta reader, AURORRA!!!!!   
  
She really made it work for me :)   
  
....................................................................................  
  
Ian Nottingham is looking for trouble.   
  
Today has been another bad day in a long list of bad days.  
  
Whatever relationship he and his father/employer, Kenneth Irons, had before Sara Pezzini became Wielder of the Witchblade is gone, and has been gone for a long while.   
  
They barely speak now, and Irons' eyes are always on him, with that little, disapproving smile ready to be born.   
  
If he makes the attempt to speak, anything he says will be met with that soft, mocking voice, speaking hurtful words in honeyed tones.  
  
Perhaps a gentle touch that poisons his flesh with its false affection.   
  
Once, that affection was real. But not since Sara.  
  
Irons knows his dog has found a new mistress.  
  
Sometimes Ian thinks Irons only keeps him around because he knows what torture it is to exist like this.  
  
And Sara... Sara wants nothing of Ian Nottingham.  
  
Today was another party.   
  
There have been a lot of them lately.   
  
Irons has been meeting new people. Making new friends.   
  
For Ian, that means hours of remaining in the background like the good and loyal little bodyguard he is, having to watch Irons flirt and chat with others. To watch him bestow the smiles and touches on them that he once bestowed on Ian.  
  
It wears on the assassin.  
  
He has been trained not to display his emotions, not to give in to them. But that doesn't mean they are not there. And Irons KNOWS that.  
  
It is a contest of sorts. To see how long he can last before he snaps.  
  
So far, Ian has won.  
  
The party is finally over. The guests have been sent home- those that are leaving- and the mess cleaned up.  
  
Now, at last, Ian can have some time to himself.   
  
Irons has retired, along with those who are staying, and the mansion has become dark and quiet.   
  
He had thought that that would be better, but it's just a prison of a different sort. This time instead of noise, lights and people, silence, shadows and the emptiness of being alone.  
  
He truly doesn't know which is worse.   
  
He hates the parties, but he hates even worse when they are over and Irons dismisses him while he pursues his... diversions.  
  
That is why he is here, prowling the dark alleys, searching for something- someone- to take out his frustrations on.  
  
If he can't end the evening as Irons is, he'll end it with another outlet.   
  
Stalking slowly forward, the dark assassin enters the alleyway, his boots silent on the ground. His ears are pricked, his body tensed beneath the enveloping black coat.  
  
He carries no weapon- tonight it will be his pleasure to fight hand to hand, to have the release of knuckles sinking into flesh, to feel the warmth of blood soaking through his gloves, to receive any wounds his victim has the luck to deal out to him.  
  
Wounds will just make the experience more enjoyable.  
  
He wants to be hurt.  
  
In the middle of the alley, he pauses.   
  
A shape has separated from the other shadows.   
  
Light glints off a blade.   
  
It seems he has found what he is looking for.  
  
Ian's heartbeat accelerates and he steps forward, mouth dry, a sudden, nearly orgasmic rush of pleasure washing over him.  
  
This is where he finds his peace.  
  
This is where he excels.  
  
This is where he lives.  
  
In death.  
  
He moves forward gracefully, but before he can reach the opponent, something stops him. He feels a pain, sudden and terrible, driving itself into his back.  
  
He grunts and falls to his knees, and hears harsh panting breath, a nervous, exultant laugh.  
  
A hand reaches under his coat and pulls his wallet from his pants pocket.  
  
He tastes blood in his mouth as he tries to turn on his attacker, but the pain comes again, harsher this time.  
  
He coughs and braces himself on his hands.  
  
How could he have made this mistake? How could he have failed to sense the ambush? Of course there was another one, another knife.  
  
The mugger grabs him by the hair, his hand finding its way under the coat again. It slides down Ian's chest.  
  
'Huh, pretty boy?' the mugger mutters. 'You thought you were big stuff, didn't you? What else you got under there?' His hands slides lower.  
  
Ian moves.  
  
The other mugger moves forward at the first scream, but when he hears the crack of bone and the second, longer scream, he rethinks his plan. Turning, he runs from the alley.  
  
There is another soft cracking sound and the body folds limply to the alley floor.  
  
Ian raises himself to his knees. He feels blood washing warmly down his back, making the hem of his coat heavy. The pain is deep, hot, a tang that sharpens with each breath.  
  
But pain is something Ian Nottingham is used to. Slowly he raises himself from his knees to his feet.  
  
He spits, and immediately feels the blood rise hot against the back of his throat again.  
  
Reaching back, he places his hand against the wound and feels the rigidity of a knife handle protruding from his back. His gloved hand closes around the weapon and draws it from his flesh.  
  
Bringing the knife to eye-level, he examines the four inch blade, the serrated edge. It is red to the hilt.  
  
It seems he has found more than he bargained for this night.  
  
And now what? Not a hospital.   
  
Must he crawl home to Irons, like this, and let himself be known as a failure even at the one thing he did better than anyone?  
  
No. He would die first.  
  
Maybe he will.  
  
Maybe it is time.  
  
Or maybe there is another option.  
  
He is in the neighborhood, of course.   
  
He always hunts here. He considers it a service to her.  
  
Maybe it is time for her to repay him.  
  
---  
  
Sara surfaces from a shallow sleep at the harsh bray of the buzzer.  
  
'Shit!' she yells, rolling out of bed and pulling on yesterday's jeans. 'Coming!'   
  
The buzzer brays again before she can make it to the little plastic box.  
  
Growling under her breath, she pushes the red button. 'What?'  
  
'Sara.'  
  
One word, just her name, but she knows that voice.  
  
'Oh, God, no. What do YOU want?'  
  
He doesn't answer. Finally, Sara pushes the button again. 'Come on up, Nottingham.'  
  
She hears his tentative rap on the door a few seconds later and goes to open it.  
  
'Do you know what time it is?'  
  
'No.' He steps inside, a large black shape that makes her apartment look suddenly small. Without waiting for permission, he slides the coat off and drops it on the floor.  
  
Beneath it, he wears black cargo pants and a tight black sweater. His hair is loose, a tangled mass of gold-streaked dark waves.   
  
He stands facing her, and she notices he looks pale, even for him.  
  
'Nottingham, is something wrong?' She takes a step toward him. 'You look.. Oh, my God.'  
  
She looks down at his feet and sees the small red puddle growing there. 'You're bleeding. What..?'  
  
He turns around, giving her his back.  
  
'It was an accident. There were two of them, I only saw one.'  
  
'Nottingham, what happened to you?' She moves forward without thinking and lifts his sweater. He's not wearing anything under it.   
  
They both tense. He perhaps because she hurt him, she because she wasn't prepared for the sight of all that pale skin.   
  
After a second, she collects herself and lifts the sweater higher. The wound is maybe three ribs up, dark and seeping a steady stream of blood.  
  
'I think you need a hospital.' She says it cautiously, already prepared for him to refuse.  
  
He doesn't disappoint her.  
  
'That won't be necessary.'  
  
'Nottingham...'   
  
'You can take care of this, Sara. The Witchblade has.. hiddent talents. One of which you can utilize now.'  
  
'What?'  
  
'Put your right hand on the wound, Sara.' His voice is soft, low, with that strange little accent he has.   
  
Right now, with her looking at the pale skin above his waistband, it's a little too intimate.  
  
'I don't think that's a good idea.'   
  
But she does it anyway.  
  
Her fingers spread wide, enclosing the stab wound. Blood trickles warmly between them, staining her fingers.  
  
Tendrils of red fluid seep toward the Witchblade and make their way over the metal. The stone flares.  
  
Warmth grows beneath her palm and she starts to draw it away.  
  
'No.' Reaching back, his gloved hand covers the wound and presses hers hard against his flesh, then harder. He lets out a long shaky sigh and his back arches, the sigh ends in a gasp.  
  
The stone flares brighter, and for an instant, Sara sees a vision-   
  
Her and Nottingham.   
  
In bed.   
  
His fingers, gloveless, bite into her shoulders. His body arches above hers, his eyes filled with a dark passion.  
  
The vision ends, leaving her shaken, her hand still pressed against his flesh. But there is no wound.  
  
She takes her hand away slowly, and this time he lets her.  
  
'What.. What was that?' she asks in an embarrassingly shaky voice.  
  
'The Witchblade has the power to heal.'   
  
His voice is just the slightest bit husky, and sends unwelcome shivers along her nerve endings.  
  
He turns suddenly and looks at her, eyes dark and fathomless. 'Thank you, Sara.'  
  
'Uh.. Yeah.'  
  
She wonders if he had the same vision she did. Then, looking into his eyes, she knows he did.  
  
She feels herself blush.  
  
To her relief, Nottingham looks away, then bends and picks up his coat. Slinging it around his shoulders, he turns to her again.  
  
'I have to go.'  
  
'Okay.'  
  
She watches him walk to the door and leave.  
  
Her knees are shaking, and as soon as the door closes behind him, she sits down.  
  
'Jesus, what was that?' she asks the empty apartment.  
  
---  
  
Outside, Ian walks briskly toward the mansion. The pain is completely gone. He knows if he looks at his back, there will not even be a scar.  
  
His lips turn up in a small, satisfied smile.  
  
To think he thought this was a bad day...  
  
The End 


End file.
